


The Nick of It

by PseudoFox



Series: Family, the Other 'F Word' [2]
Category: The Thick of It (TV), Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anthropomorphic, Awkwardness, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Furry, Gen, Government, Humor, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Politics, Satire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoFox/pseuds/PseudoFox
Summary: Officer Nick Wilde has some time off of his job at the police department. He plans on spending it with his own family as well as that of his close partner, Judy Hopps, even though he's not sure what will happen. With the city of Zootopia in social turmoil, having two former Mayors behind bars, Nick finds that reconnecting with his long-separated cousin will be a trickier thing than he'd thought. The games played by politicians make hustling look pretty small-time by comparison.





	1. Chapter 1

**[Chapter One]**

"Oh, wow, it's _him_!" Nick Wilde called out. He spun around and pressed his body against the huge window of the electronic store. His hot breath caused a big spot to form on the chill glass around his mouth.

Judy Hopps strained herself to keep from laughing at her partner, though still feeling rather confused. She perked her ears and heard the thrumming sounds of classical music coming from the various electronic devices. She stepped just a bit behind Nick as she saw a tall, slender fox appearing on the many television sets. The screens transfixed Nick. The bunny adjusted her police uniform, glancing down the mostly empty street.

"Yep, that's him," Judy murmured, "and it looks like you caught him in the middle of a stressful something." The one on the many televisions waved a paw in the air, standing in a plain yet crowded conference room with various flags and chairs all about.

Judy marveled about how keenly the foxes resembled each other. Certainly, the other one lacked the confident smile and swagger that Nick had in spades— having thick glasses and several peculiar-looking grey spots along the shoulder and face as well. Yet the fox on the screens had the same expressive green eyes and handsome orange fur that she adored so much on Nick.

"Can you believe it? The nerdy son of my even nerdier aunt— little 'Scooter' over from Downing Street— having made it all the way to prime-time TV," Nick remarked, tapping the sidewalk as he stood. The text on the screen said it all: _William 'Scooter' Wilde (CRP) - Secretary of Economic Affairs._

"Glad to see that some good is still coming out of Bellwether's busting," Judy replied. She reflected for a moment. As much as she didn't want to rain on Nick's personal parade, her parents were dutifully waiting back at her apartment. They didn't have time to simply gawk in front of a store like idle children. "New guys in power in Zootopia means new opportunities: old divisions between races shouldn't stay so tense. But we should really keep walking—"

"It's _beyond_ surreal," Nick remarked, barely paying attention to Judy, "to see someone that I last saw in my kit days! The guy's still laying that accent of his on thick too, and they even put his silly nickname on the bottom of the screen! It feels like just week when I tried to teach him how to hustle an extra soda from McAdams' vending machines—" Nick slapped his knee, letting out a burst of giggles. "I ended up accidentally swiping a pair of his D &D dice! Thought that it was for playing craps!"

"Interesting," Judy said, watching as Nick's breath fogged up even more of the cold glass, "I'm sure that it'll be even crazier when you see 'Scooter' face-to-face later tonight." Nick looked on intently as 'Scooter' moved on screen behind a huge podium. The public official faced off a gaggle of press types that gave him their full attention. "Still, we need to—"

"Damn, every little move that he makes has this awkward, _pained_ sort of feel," Nick observed, "Scooter really needs some friends or family to back him right there behind him." Judy opened her mouth to reply but stopped as Nick suddenly looked away from the glass back at her. The expression on her face showed that she agreed. The partners hadn't seen a mammal this out of his depth since they'd saved Stu Hopps from getting harassed by teenage wolverines.

"Hey, Wilde, I'll catch you later, alright?" Judy remarked, playing the 'last name card' to make things clear, "speaking of family, _I_ , at least, seriously need to go right now. My parents will understand if you come in a little bit later."

She waved as she turned around, heading down the street. Nick halfheartedly waved right back for a second. He immediately turned himself around— the wall of televisions coming close to hypnotizing him. He then strained himself to hear the next bit of chatter from his cousin.

"If you let me indulge myself with a little Gaelic," Scooter declared, pointing to a mammal at the back of the conference room, "I'll say this: _tá fuadach orthu_. They're selling like hotcakes. Next question, please."

Nick vaguely recognized the next journalist that got called. The wolf's arrogant face looked out from at least three billboards for Zootopian talk radio. The familiar-looking reporter ruffled a paw against his thick neck as he called out his questions. "Do you have any comment about possibly missing vials of 'Nighthowlers'— what with certain amounts apparently 'misplaced' by corporate security contractors? The Mayor's half-brother sits on the corporation's board of directors as well, doesn't he?"

"Why are you bothering an Economics Secretary with police stuff? And, hey, it's not even that fair to begin with: just because you reconnect with a half-brother, a cousin, or whatever else," Nick muttered to himself, "doesn't mean that they'll do what you tell them to." He realized that he'd spotted the wolf at a Zootopia Police Department event just two days before— the reporter doggedly pushing paranoid musings to officer after officer.

"The administration has a firm policy, as you know, of saying nothing about ongoing criminal investigations," Scooter flatly responded, shifting his head every so slightly upwards.

Some short yet loud mammal in the back yelled out, "That hasn't stopped them from leaking like a sieve!"

Scooter shot over a deathly glare in that direction. "I'm totally confident that the rest of the government is securing the 'Nighthowler' threat. Both private contractors and Zootopian law enforcement officers take the matter seriously: they have and shall continue to fruitfully collaborate. You can tell your listeners that. Next question."

"How much are you looking forwards to meeting Gazelle on Monday?" asked a short weasel reporter— the poor thing caught in the middle of the throng of journalists. The larger mammals shoved each other around so much that they started squishing the stammering little one. "The e-editors at the 'D-Daily T-Telegraph' are—"

"Everybody at our office looks forward to the occasion with great interest, expecting to have a particularly nice time," Scooter replied, trying and failing to put some happiness into his monotone. He pointed directly at the journalist and gestured in a way to get the other reporters to back off— to allow the hapless weasel some breathing room. To the fox's dismay, none of them cared. "Gazelle is—" Scooter strained to think of what to say. The weasel managed to slip through the legs of a tall, skinny rhino, the journalist slinking away. "She's a fascinating individual."

“Do you like her music at all, Mr. Secretary?” someone called out from the far left.

“Pardon?”

“Their music! Have you actually listened to her latest album? Are you a fan?” asked a happy-looking girl from the front row, her prominent freckles shining in the conference room's bright lights. She had clearly snuck in on behalf of some teen magazine. Numerous eyes locked on the flamboyantly dressed antelope.

Scooter stopped for a moment as he thought things through. Eons away from being born under a spotlight, he struggled hard to deal with how even innocent comments could spark off a 24-hour-news controversy. Speaking like a detached robot came easy to him, but saying something that sounded genuinely caring was tough. Scooter smiled as he finally responded, “I'll say this: she'll wake you up in the morning."

A series of laughs burst out from the audience. Scooter visibly breathed easier, letting himself step back from the podium. He then pointed over at a heavy-set tigress with a black suit and a thick necklace. Leaning against the main television camera, the tigress spread out her arms a bit. Scooter noted how, even in such a restrained setting, her muscular features and prominent stripes looked particularly majestic.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” she said, checking her notepad before going on, “earlier this morning, a Zootopia Council member and heredity Baron by the name of Gerson Lazarus the Second'— a key member of the Conservative Renewal Party’s internal think tank known as the ‘Action Study Group’— attended a press-free seminar. During the event, he made some provocative—"

“Ma'am, what exactly is your question?” interjected a staff member, a hare with big, rosy cheeks and a bigger frown, as she stepped beside the beleaguered fox. The Secretary looked stone-faced.

“My question,” the journalist went on, arching an eyebrow as she glared at the staffer, “relates to the Party seminar. Baron Lazarus made a series of thought-provoking claims that ended up being recorded by an uninvited blogger. A mister Weaselton, I believe? At any rate, the Baron declared that the majority of elected officials under Mayor Swinton think, behind closed doors, that the best response to budget turmoil is to enact a fifteen percent hike in sales taxes."

"There's no plans," Scooter began, gripping his paws upon the podium, "to—"

"Even as it would fall hard on the lower and middle classes, Mr. Secretary," the tigress said, "I should note as well: the Baron added that this measure was necessary because of so-called 'welfare preddos' that 'drain the treasury'— particularly those that live, in his opinion, truly 'pointless lives making stupid art or stupider music'."

Scooter remained silent while the staffer slipped over to his side and whispered into his ear. "You can assure the readers of the 'Daily Mirror',” the fox responded, letting his irritation flow through as he narrowed his eyes, “that nobody in the Economics Office knows anything about these statements. Thus, we have no comment. Any inquiries should be made to the Baron and him alone. Next question."

"Oh, yes," called over the skinny rhino, "the natural gas report—"

“Mr. Secretary, _please,_ ” butted in the tigress journalist. She clearly didn't like the glares from the more right-wing reporters in her direction but still wishing to press the point. "I’m going to cut through the background and be direct: aren't you and everybody else under Mayor Swinton being really hypocritical? Behind closed doors there's racially-charged talk and insults about music being a waste of time! But, _in public_ , politicians hold events with pop singers— does that make sense?"

"Ma'am," Scooter interjected, "I think—"

"Widespread economic stagnation has hurt many lower-class and middle-class families— much of it acutely worse for working predators, already dealing with the post-Bellwether fallout," the tigress protested, standing up straight and proud as she looked straight into the politician's face, "wouldn't stiffing them with tax hikes be adding insult to injury?"

Knowing that he should keep his emotions in check didn't stop Scooter from narrowing his eyes to little points, letting his mouth show some of his teeth as well. "Look! As a matter of objective fact, no proposal for raising any kind of tax rate has been made in writing. Not in any way, shape, or form... the same being true for anything in terms of promoting music and the like. I'm not here to listen to conspiracy-mongering."

"Could the Economics Office, _your_ office, be intentionally left in the dark by the Mayor's closest mammals?"

Frustration building inside of him, the fox tried and failed to neither stammer nor sweat. "W-we are g-going to solve our economic problems by reforming the budget with zero tax increases— making careful decisions to fine-tune and re-allocate funds for education, infrastructure, and the like. The general concept enjoys bipartisan support."

“What really is the chance of that," interjected another reporter, "for that kind of serious bipartisan cooperation to happen? The political system is in shambles! The two past Mayors are behind bars! How do you deal with voting blocks being so tied to species lines— your party barely having support among predators in the first place?”

" _Éisteacht!_ Listen," Scooter replied, showing even more teeth. He wanted to scream out that he was also 'one of them'— that he didn't live in a bubble away from working-class predators like some stereotypical government bureaucrat. "Nobody in my office intends to balancing the budget by gutting services to regular mammals, and I'm well aware of how many families would feel horrified if they endured a tax hike. Now, if I had to use these question times to debate every single comment said by every single City Council member at every single event, then we’d be here for _decades_.”

“They're important questions,” the journalist objected.

“You’re asking about something that hasn't been proposed in the past and isn’t being proposed now. Honestly, it’s like asking us: ‘If the moon were made of cheese, would it be Cheddar or Nacho?”

“Why, that’s just crazy,” suddenly called out a voice behind the fox. Everyone looked over and saw that same staffer from before, producing a pair of gigantic coffees. She gave Scooter a quick sign with her paws underneath the drink tray— something that Nick spotted as well. "Everyone knows that it’s made of Swiss! That’s where the holes come from!"

The crowd of journalists let out some nervous laughter once again. Scooter pointed at a group of tough-looking boars with the occasional pig, sucking down an entire cup in a matter of seconds. “ _Rinneadh de réir do thola._ Thank you all for participating. I'll answer no further questions at this time. This is the e-end of the press conference, and I h-hope that everybody has a p-pleasant day." Agonizingly kitsch music played as the boars moved in to shove away the journalists. Scooter walked off of the stage. The reporters began crying out a torrent of additional questions— mouths open at full volume.

"Well, William— or, I guess, 'Scooter'— probably will be pretty mad when I see him," Nick muttered, walking away from the televisions. He glanced over still to see the reporters' pens and notebooks bandied about in the air like if they were weapons. Nick shook his head, rubbing a paw around his neck, and jogged down the street over to a collection of gigantic stone buildings.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Nick didn't put that much thought into the massive edifice as he stepped into it. Once a mammal had seen one of the old government buildings, he or she had seen them all. The downtown Zootopia complex featured a bunch of simplistic concrete slabs. The police officer flashed his identification and made his way into one particular group of offices, idly humming a Gazelle tune as he walked.

Various mammals in smart outfits glanced at him, yet few paid that much attention. Finally, he came upon the second to last floor in the building. He sauntered through some corridors to the batch of offices in which his long-separated cousin worked— a mini-maze of cubicles sitting in the middle of an array of big offices.

The fox paused for a moment to take in the scene. Even late into the evening, mammal after mammal scurried about clutching laptops, briefcases, sets of laminated papers, and the like tightly against their chests. Nick didn't spot a single smile. The environment made it all the worse. The administrative offices for the City Council's employees made the Zootopia Police Department look like a cozy summer home. Not a single plant among the multitude of dangling ferns seemed real. The flat, pale lights coating the ceiling matched the featureless grey chairs and black desks quite well. 

"I, uh, I'm here," Nick said, walking up to what looked like a wall built of various pale blue boxes. Somebody had stacked them up in a way that secluded one particular office— looking like an overworked mammal's take on having a castle fortress. A tiny Zootopian flag atop the middle of the cardboard was the icing on the cake. "I have an appointment? To see the Secretary right now? _Hello?_ " Nick stepped over to a gap among the many boxes.

"Officer Wilde!"

A bit of tarp immediately fell on Nick's head. While swatting it away and letting out a grunt, he tried to make sense of things. He heard some loud arguing from not too far away. "Hello, yes," Nick remarked, "that's me!"

"Great-to-see-you, have-a-seat and you'll-be-summoned-in-as-soon-as-you-are-expected," rattled off a short, sweaty antelope with a pinstripe suit and bowtie. He sped through the words so quickly that it took Nick a few seconds to turn them into a coherent sentence.

"Alright," murmured Nick. The clerk locked eyes with him for a few seconds before turning back and clutching a group of beige folders. Various important-looking objects from small personal calendars to rolled up electronic cables to opened-up CD cases and more littered every last inch of the antelope's desk. "It's no problem." Nick strained to read the clerk's name-tag, but the font appeared so weirdly small and italicized that it might as well been in another language.

"The Secretary's facing off against the 'Tank', so it might be a while," the clerk commented in between frantic bouts of typing.

"Facing... off..." Nick repeated, trying to force those words to make sense. He stared blankly at the large wall of crystal-like material in front of him. Nick recognized a room with one-way mirror-like windows when he saw one, and he wasn't surprised that his cousin would want that kind of office, but this set-up appeared pretty shoddy to say the least. "Tank..."

The fox took a seat on a plain, all-black chair. After idly tapping his knee for a few seconds, Nick stuck his neck to the side. It looked as if, from a certain angle, he might be able to peek right on through the crystal-like window. Nick thought it rather odd that age hadn't made the other fox look much different— although time had apparently made his cousin fifty percent or so more nerdy and one hundred percent of so more pissed off.

"Robert 'Tank' Reed," the antelope suddenly remarked, wiggling about a bunch of long wires and cables as he tried his best to untangle them. He glanced over at Nick and frowned. "Tank's the Mayor's closest 'hatchet mammal'. In short: whatever the Secretary did wrong, he did _really wrong_."

"I see," Nick responded, the fox having little clue what to make of that. Still, he kept on moving in place— managing to lean on his chair in such a way that he saw right into the other Wilde's room. The swollen-looking blood vessels on Scooter's face made Nick wonder if the next family visit would take place in a hospital.

"If I worried about losing my job, then I probably wouldn't tell you that Harriet 'Bike' Haight is there too. Both that _and_ 'Scooter' are far stupider nicknames than 'Tank' will ever be," the antelope went on, clutching a bunch of twist-ties and carefully fitting them onto the cables.

"Fair point!" Nick said. He watched as his cousin stomped about the floor inside of the office. The other fox came close to throwing a cup of coffee across the room. Nick noticed that Scooter's eyes had narrowed into slits, the fox's fangs sticking out completely. "There's a rather obvious implication as well: apparently, you'll never worry about losing your job?"

"I'm at the 'heard with an arms dealer', 'photographed with a crack pipe', and 'filmed with a hooker' stage," replied the antelope. Nick tried not to giggle. "To be clear, I'm that with everybody _except_ Tank." The clerk gripped a bunch of CDs and started to slide them into the sides of a thick binder. He didn't have to add the 'so, that's why I'm actually working for once' part.

"Is there _anyone_ in this office that used to be in the Transportation Department _without_ a really weird nickname?" Nick asked.

"Nope!"

"It somewhat works. 'Mister Secretary' doesn't quite fit," Nick remarked, "not on the self-loathing nerd that... apparently lugs that guitar around with him?" His eyes grew wide as he peeked at the big musical instrument mounted on the wall behind his cousin desk. It looked odd against the stack of bland white filing cabinets beneath it. "Okay, seriously, who does that belong to?"

"It's Mr. Wilde's. Really."

"No kidding?"

"It's the truth!"

Nick brushed a paw against his uniform, stopping at his badge, and grinned. "I guess it's a pleasant-ish surprise. So, he finally did live that dream that he kept blabbing about in middle school? Joining some 'post-new-wave' outfit, playing freaky distortion to fellow dorks in their dingy basements? I wonder how much he got into it in college—"

"He doesn't really _play it_ so much as carry it and wield it, like a voodoo-ish totem," griped the stressed-out clerk. He let out a sigh big enough to blow a few tiny sheets around his desk. "I'll put it this way: it comes out when blood pressures have gone through the roof."

"He's _that_ bad?"

"Hard to know what to say, sir." The antelope reached for the papers as he leaned his face closer to a spreadsheet-filled computer screen. "Nobody under Mr. Wilde is allowed to even mention the... uhh... _the instrument_. God, don't get me started on what if you tried to touch it."

"Of course, if I stick around, saying simply 'Mr. Wilde' will get confusing fast," Nick continued. He watched as the heated argument in his cousin's office went on. He spotted three mammals in total, yet he only got a good glimpse of one— the other Wilde looking ready to explode. "I'm sure that he doesn't use the transportation-y nicknames face-to-face, right? Plenty of mammals love goofing off, but if 'Scooter' is even put on television when—"

"I'm sorry, but I can't talk much anymore," the clerk remarked, "what with this bunch of e-mails that just popped up. Sir, the Secretary will see you in just about five minutes, I'm sure." He locked eyes with Nick for a few seconds before turning back to the computer.

"Hey, my cousin's the one that's on the clock," Nick replied, "I started my week off the force two full hours ago." He leaned to the side even more in his chair, taking in a deep breath. Suddenly, to Nick's delight, he accidentally brushed his ear against a bookshelf in a way that brought a burst of sound. Pressing his head against the shelf completely, ears rubbed upon the wood, Nick could suddenly hear every word. He held his body together tightly and listened in as best he could.


	2. Chapter 2

**[Chapter Two]**

"It's one-hundred percent fucking pointless!" Scooter barked, the fox's tie getting shot up into the air as he waved his paws around.

"It's not fucking pointless! Not when the fucking 'Daily Mirror' says that it fucking matters!" 'Tank' called out. The reindeer towered over the fox as they glared at each other. Nick couldn't help but think that the menacing, muscle-covered reindeer could probably run the entire city of Zootopia by the power of his tight cheekbones alone.

" _Orthu sin atá a chruthú!_ "

"No! Not a single _fucking_ sentence out of your mouth from now on that's Irish bastard talk! Or I'm cramming that Goddamn tie right down your throat!" Tank growled back.

"It means that the burden of proof is on _them_!"

"I don't give a shit what it meant!"

"Please, we can work this out, sir," muttered 'Bike'. The hare stood awkwardly in the corner. Her eyes migrated from the various magazines, small fans, miniature plaques, and the like on the many shelves to the multiple items littering the office's big desk— all the while trying her best not to simply stare at her immediate boss. 

"Oh, don't you start!" Scooter braced himself against his massive, ornate desk and clutched a cup of coffee— squeezing the paper so tightly that it collapsed in his grip. "Don't think that your little super-heroine moment _out there_ makes things any better _in here_."

"Well, she's got a Goddamn point," replied Tank.

"Oh, yes, _of course_ ," Scooter retorted, walking about his desk before slamming himself down onto his large, plush chair, "I'm sure that those yellow journalist far-left assholes over at the 'Daily Mirror', the 'Independent', the 'Morning Star', and Christ-only knows however many rags are out there—" The fox seized the newspapers, one after the other, in front of him and tossed them into the trash. "Would be _perfectly_ understandable if I politely asked them to stop shoveling this _shit_ —"

"Mr. Secretary, calm down," Tank remarked. He sighed as he stepped over to the diploma-covered wall. "Don't waste my fucking time, please—"

"What are those dipshits if not _totally_ open-minded to every new face of the Conservative Renewal Party—"

"I _know_ , Goddamn it!" The antelope smacked a hoof onto a group of thick books at the edge of the desk. He narrowed his eyes as his chiseled antlers poised only mere inches from the fox's face.

"Answer me this: how many fucking cameras were on me when I answered their questions? _Huh_?"

"At least, sir," Harriet chimed in, moving a paw over to the plate of carrot cookies on the table beside her, "three were there." She clutched a tray with two more coffees and quickly plopped it down on the fox's desk.

"It's bad enough that they pull all this about some stupid 'Baron' and his arrogant right-wing fucktard musings in my face, as if _I_ have a fucking thing to do with it! Okay, sure, I'm being eaten alive out there, but I think that I might relax— you guys at the Mayor's office are supposedly miracle workers, right? You go to fight _that_ fire, and I get calls about how 'the Weaselton leak's almost buried'—" The fox stretched his arms out and clutched his paws into the empty air, posing as if he asked God himself for mercy. "And then the evening editions prove you all to be complete fucking liars! Front page articles, over and over again!"

"The Mayor's best mammals are on it!" Tank retorted.

"Well, it's not getting any better— _tá ainghléas air_! How the fuck do you really think I should react when the fire is _still_ burning _and_ the cockroaches start _another_ one— right under your fucking nose! I'm _engulfed_!"

"We _can_ solve this!" Tank declared. He stamped a hoof in front of the fox. " _But_ you should calm the fuck down and _listen_ to me—"

"God! It's for the _benefit_ of those cockroaches that I held today's conference, right? I listen to all of their self-serving nonsense about, 'oh, oh dear me, how can that new Secretary under the new Mayor go a full two weeks without a major public statement', and _then_ they spend one fucking _fourth_ of the time on actual _economics_! Versus all of this inside baseball crap and, even worse, _pop culture_ shit that they all know— they all _know_ — I barely understand a fucking thing about!"

"I'm the last mammal that you'd need to tell this too, Mr. Secretary," Tank replied, knocking a hoof upon the desk yet again, "I don't need a fucking lecture from someone that the Mayor's office relies on, _counts on_ —"

"Well, I feel like I'm taking some Goddamn crazy pills or something— because it seems like nobody other than me and the actual Goddamn _recording equipment_ cares about what I _actually said_!"

"Yes," Tank flatly responded, coming to a seat across from the Secretary, "perception is reality. Reality winds up being what you make it." Seething contempt dripped off of both of their faces. "You and your chief of staff—" He motioned in the direction of the hare. "Both know that your immediate predecessors spent half of their time fucking each other's brains out, _but_ those two remained happy enough returning to their spouses when work was done. _Nothing_ got reported on. Why? They had their perceptions in order. As long as they managed things fine, the press said nothing."

"Commies with bylines!" The fox pointed defiantly at the paper-filled trash can, little bits of spittle dripping out from his mouth. "That's what they fucking well are!"

"A lot of them." Tank kept on glaring at Scooter. "Not all. Over-generalize at your peril, Mr. Secretary, since those 'commies with bylines' don't like to be called that—"

"Look!" Scooter declared, rubbing his face with both paws, "I have _actual work_ to do for the entire rest of the day. I have little prey babies to kiss. I have think tanks to visit. I have unemployment offices to help open. It just goes on and _on_. Are you really, seriously telling me that I need to drop _everything_ to do some kind of 'damage control' for these Goddamn pseudo-scandals?"

"Yes, I am."

"Yes," Harriet added, stepping a bit closer to Scooter, "he is."

All three of them sighed at the same moment. Wiggling about in his chair, the fox leaned his head back, glancing at the various objects on the wall behind him. He rubbed an arm through the leaves of a massive fake tree.

"Okay, oh- _fucking_ -kay," Scooter began, reaching over for the small electric guitar poised on a rack above a bookcase, "everybody fucking _sensible_ knows that I have jack shit to do with this far right asshole 'Baron'. And they know when asked 'What do you think about Gazelle?' I replied that 'Her music will sure get you up in the morning!' or some other kind of daytime TV-show canned answer, yes? We know that. The left-wing press knows these things."

"Mr. Secretary—"

"Well, I'd rather just wait until their Orwellian bits of spin just _get killed_! These idiots claiming that _somehow_ I said that I have Gazelle as my alarm chime or that _somehow_ I'm being 'condescending', 'disrespectful', and 'offensive', 'starting a celebrity war'... I just want to be able to fucking relax, okay?" Scooter closed his eyes and idly strummed upon the guitar, pressing his orange fur against the cold, rainbow-painted metal. " _But_ , Reed, if you and the rest of the Public Affairs Ministry want me to dangle some shiny bit of distraction above their heads to make the story shrivel up and die on its own... _so be it._ "

"Yes, it's about fucking time we get to the fucking _point_!" Tank yelled. He gripped his own coffee and sucked it down. "Alright, you and I both know that you've only got this bland, obscure-as-all-shit job because you're no-name entity outside of regular party politics, okay?

"Fine," the fox replied. He closed his eyes completely. "I'm a cipher. A Goddamn cog in a Goddamn machine. I _get that_." Scooter thought about he had pissed off nobody since he'd done nothing of note, and his particular combination of biting cynicism with dogged idealism when it came to actual policy change made him somewhat useful. After Bellwether's ouster, at least, the fragile coalition of centrists and conservatives that came to power pushed multiple predators through the civil service docket— trying their best to look racially inclusive.

"I know what to do," Tank remarked, "and I've had just about enough of letting you vent, as healthy as I know it is."

"For fuck's sake, it's the _irony_ in that you said that really gets me!" Scooter let out, making a pained chuckle as he massaged a paw against the frets on his guitar, "I'm sure that a nasty affair with a middle-aged hare, my own chief of staff no less, would probably be nothing short of a _fantastic_ to the dipshit left-wingers... it would make me 'socially progressive through applied experimentation'— at least that's what they'd say if they were fucking consistent for once!"

"Well," Bike chimed in, giggling for a moment as she stepped away from Scooter, "it _would_ let both of us blow off some steam. Hell, probably would be fodder for some genuinely cool late-night stand-up. Predator-on-prey trysts usually _are_ the naughtiest."

"But when it all gets back," Scooter added, "to your 'preddo'-bashing husband—"

"Enough, okay? You feeling at least a _smidgen_ more reasonable now, Mr. Secretary?" asked Tank.

"So, fine, but what the hell happens now?" The fox opened his eyes and played through a set of spirited riffs. "I'm sure that you're not going to say that we leak the 'Urban Hymns Project' four days early."

"You know Goddamn well that I'm not that stupid. And neither are you."

"Yes, _yes_ , I know," Scooter said, swiveling about in the chair to look at his wall of academic accomplishments, "I fucking _know_!" He let himself sink into his own thoughts for a moment. Of course, in the world of city politics, having an actual understanding of business, finance, and like was close to meaningless— if anything, it made him feel worse to realize just how little anyone in higher office cared about the economy. "All this God-awful post-Bellwether politics, making sure that certain cliques got spoon-fed the proper talking points... do I need to phone the 'Financial Times' editor again?"

"It's true that the 'Financial Times' already owes us one with the Guinness scandal. But there's a lot going on with them that you're not privy to, Mr. Secretary."

"I don't know what level of three-dimensional chess you guys at the Mayor's office are on." Scooter sighed. "I do know, though, that today's dumpster fire is going to end up with our office revealing _something_ interesting to _some_ Goddamn press outfit."

"Come on, just think of it like a slow-build romance," Tank said, causing Scooter to put on a look of surprise, "the 'Financial Times'? They're the soft, flirting phase. Piling on with the detailed exclusive about your office's new program, though, and giving all of these juicy details— about how you'll spend time and money on various poor waifs for after-school music education? That makes it serious. _That_ kind of exclusive, made when they're already on our side, pushes them from 'sympathetic' to 'in the tank'."

The reindeer didn't have to add that his gamesmanship with the press had gotten him that nickname in the first place. Everybody higher-up in the Zootopia City Council knew that the Mayor's right-hand mammal had gotten so plugged into things that few would dare defy him— said fact only made the moniker even more apt. The ability to bench press his entire weight and swear in a way that would make a sailor blush helped as well.

"Thank fucking _God_ for short attention spans among the stupid and long attention spans among the educated," Scooter remarked, lifting himself up out of the chair, "and, alright, so what's the alternative— you want to me to ring that tall rhino who just started at the 'Daily Mail'? She was there earlier today, still pushing that long-running story about natural gas jobs. There's also that fat clod at 'The Sun' that—"

"Who really gives a shit what the 'Daily Mail' prints?" Bike groused, stepping away from the fox.

"The base?" Scooter asked. "Middle Zootopia? The folks that think that there's no reason to salute the flag unless it's daily, it's mandatory, and it's done in missionary position in order to produce two point five babies. You know—" Scooter wiggled his guitar about in his paws. "The moronic sons-of-bitches that _we_ like because they're _our_ moronic sons-of-bitches."

"Oh, come on," Tank remarked, "so what if it's not even 'free-market' or 'conservative' or whatever-the-fuck-label-you-want-to-use in the slightest to expand after-school education? It's a 'public private partnership'. Besides, the right-wing dick-sucking sycophants at the 'Daily Mail' will always have our back no matter what."

"Yeah, _yeah_ ," murmured Scooter. He picked up the last newspaper, sighed, and added it to the pile in the trash. "Who gives a damn in how they spin it? They could sell Cheetah Guevara shirts to local housewives as long as they think it's from an authentic Zootopian factory, owned by 'good country folk'."

Tank went on, "And 'The Sun' will be with you as long as you're under the Mayor with the biggest tits."

"Canidae's are perkier though," Bike remarked.

"Ugh, just... it's always been my _dream._ My Goddamn _vision_ —" The fox spread his arms in the air, making an invisible rainbow. "Once we get the self-proclaimed 'reasonable', 'pragmatic', and 'centrist' types that follow what the 'Financial Times' says we can actually _do_ something! Mammals who shy away from the smell of left-wing shit _and_ right-wing shit being on our side, we can actually get to the meatier stuff! Tax reform! Entitlement reform! _The good shit_!"

"The aromatic shit, sir," Harriet added. The fox glanced over at her direction. Tank nodded as he watched Scooter wiggle around the guitar a bit— the fox wielding the instrument almost like a cave-mammal holding a club.

"Sir!" The beleaguered antelope shoved his head inside and tapped against the plastic quasi-windows. "An Officer Wilde has been waiting to see you."

Outside, Nick jumped right out of his chair— his mouth wide open, in shock, after hearing his own name. He found himself standing in the middle of the floor behind the antelope. He could only see one mammal past the clerk, staring out at an edge of the office door. The last carrot-flavored treat dangled out of the hare staffer's mouth.

"Oh, you've brought my own flesh-and-blood here! _Go raibh maith agat!_ Please end him in, like," they all heard Scooter saying, "in another minute and thirty seconds or so."

"Understood!" The clerk popped right back out of the room.

"I'll go out to speak with him," Harriet interjected, looking like she relished in the excuse to get away from the reindeer. She chomped off the last of her treat and hopped over to where Nick stood.

"Hi!" Nick exclaimed, trying to look and sound as friendly as he could.

"Hi!" Bike called out. She immediately turned away from him. "Bye!"

"Uh," Nick muttered, "bye?" Before he could even realize it, the hare hopped right on away. He glanced all around, yet the anxious antelope clerk had apparently vanished as well. Confused, Nick returned to his position on his chair— posing himself once again to hear what was going on in the adjacent office.

"So, ugh, what the hell do we give the press then?" Scooter asked, pushing his guitar down and leaning against it like an oversize cane.

"Something both extremely interesting yet also highly meaningless."

"Oh, _what joy_ ," the fox replied, clutching his guitar and bursting through a power chord, "I suppose there's a whole list of shitty focus group ideas in that endless stack of folders behind me." He kept on playing. "What about free condoms for every nun? A ZPD deployment of sensors that block gaydar? BugBurga coupons for every sheep? Bringing back the death penalty— but only for singing karaoke out of key?"

"For fuck's sake, Mr. Wilde—"

"Or, maybe," Scooter went on, raising his voice, "how about I just waltz right in front of the fucking cameras— living out the fantasy of half of the city— and eat out the Mayor's _big, pink pussy_?"

"For the love of God, Mr. Secretary, this isn't helping," Tank groused, pressing a hoof against the wall.

"Aw, tits!" Scooter yelled out. He held a broken string in his paw and kicked the trash can. Glaring at the blank, featureless ceiling for a moment, he dropped the entire guitar onto the desk and sighed. "Okay, Jesus Christ in heaven, how about leaking to the press something kind of related to the 'Urban Hymns' project but not really?"

"That works. We could announce the appointment of some charismatic type, helping us with our upcoming work. If he or she is spicy enough, the fucking cockroaches can be made to dance for him—"

Scooter scratched all around his neck, the sweat pouring down his cheeks starting to get to him. "I suppose, yes, but—"

"Sir!" The antelope clerk, appearing out of nowhere, butted in yet again. Nick, putting on the perfect poker face, leaned down and stuck his head in as well. Scooter looked out blankly. He thought about how even multiple near-death experiences with the Bellwether case had somehow failed to stop Nick's ability to look annoyingly smug. Scooter winced— yet a light-bulb went off in his head.

"There you are! _Céad míle fáilte!_ Hey, this is the Director of Communications at the Ministry of Public Affairs," Scooter said, pointing with both arms at the blase-looking reindeer, "a Mr. Reed. Please say 'hello' to my cousin: Nicholas Piberius Wilde, the famous detective from the Zootopia Police Department."

"Greetings," Tank remarked in a monotone, holding a hoof against his black and grey suit. Nick waved back.

"And he's the same Nick Wilde that will be our 'Special Assistant of Urban Civic Development'!" Scooter declared.

"I guess," Nick replied, laughing in surprise and looking around the room. The clerk had vanished once again. The police officer glanced about in all directions, yet everybody else had gone without so much as a sound. The foxes were alone.

"Yep, that's the title that you'll have now," Scooter said. Nick sat himself down, still caught half-wave with his paw in the air.

"Wait... _what?"_

"Tell me, 'cuz," Scooter began, "do you know anything at all about public development?"

"No..."

"What about music? Or the arts in general?"

"Absolutely not."

"Do you like bossing mammals around, though?"

"I guess?" Nick replied, suppressing a laugh, "about as much as the next guy, maybe..."

"What about swearing? Pointless, impotent cursing?"

"It can be... fun, I suppose..."

"Then _fucking_ congratulations!" Scooter remarked, suddenly gripping his guitar and thrusting it up high in the air above him like a trophy. "Welcome to city politics!"

Nick still felt beyond confused as his cousin vigorously shook his paw. Sweat started to drip down his cheeks, and he picked himself up out of the chair. "Uh, I'm sorry, but I don't really understand what I just agreed to. Or if I even agreed in the first place. Or what I will be doing. Or anything at all about the broader context."

"Perfect! You'll fit _right in_!"

Nick had pulled quite a wide variety of scams in his life. That career had its ups and downs. Yet one thing that didn't change, something that he'd drilled into himself to remember, was the cardinal rule of hustling: 'if you don't know who the patsy is, it's you.'


	3. Chapter 3

**[Chapter Three]**

A few drinks and some haphazard chatting with his cousin hadn't helped the mood that much. Still, Nick tried his best to think things through— trying to, at least, look confident. The antelope clerk had gone back to work outside of the Secretary's office. The other fox popped in and out of the room a few times, grabbing even more coffees, and time didn't make him any less morose. Nick sipped down a skinny caffeinated drink after his cousin offered one— not being surprised at how strong it tasted.

"So, about this job," Nick began, feeling his cousin pressing a paw against his head. The police officer allowed the Secretary to lead him a few feet to the side and finally to press him down into the office's main chair. "Well, if you want me in the big seat, I'm pretty happy with _that_."

"Comfy, isn't it?"

"Sure." Nick made a cheeky smile as he squeaked its springs.

"Mayor Swinton's chair cost about three times as much, true, but this one snuggles around your posterior so _perfectly_." Scooter looked at the ceiling for a moment, having a sort of wistful tone to his voice. "Hey, when you can only affect the daily lives of mammals less than half as much as you thought, going in, you cling to life's little pleasures."

"It feels fine, but," Nick remarked, scraping his arms against the sides of the chair, "I'm still wondering. I'm not sure at all what I'll be doing for the Economics Department. What I'll _actually do_ — day to day, you know? All this stuff you just told me about your job, your life since middle school, and so on over the past several minutes... well, it's _interesting_ , but—"

"The project! You're a kind of, well, figurehead," Scooter said, sitting down opposite his cousin.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Like a... _a mascot_?"

"Well, we are talking about something for the children—"

"Yes, finally, we can get to the point: this is a sort of 'social engineering' thing? That's where you get the title 'Urban Hymns Project' from? It sounds weirdly both artistic and formal at the same time."

"That's the truth. Nick, honestly, I've wanted to have something like this ever since I was leaning up against a lamppost listening to _Raidió na Gaeltachta_ , years ago... I spent so much of my time on the streets wishing that I had a decent place to relax _somewhere_."

"You really think that a bit of musical education will help with all of these poor kits, poor cubs, and the rest?" Nick swiveled about in place as he looked on blankly. Scooter's demented expression, ears perked and eyes contorted, in talking about his past reminded Nick as much of criminal sociopaths as it did of political officeholders— although dealing with Bellwether and others had proved to Nick how blurred the lines were. "With those kids, urban life... for them, it's like..."

"Where the fuck do you think the title 'Urban Hymns' came from, 'cuz? It's because: it's a _bittersweet symphony_! _That's life_!" Scooter suddenly burst out. He hopped over to the side, grabbed the last of the various coffees, and downed the cup in a single gulp. "You're a slave to others, you do what you can, and then _you die_!" 

"Look," Nick flatly replied, holding up his paws in front of his face, "I'm a _cop_ , for crying out loud, and even I'm not _that_ cynical."

Scooter hummed a bit as he picked up his guitar from the desk, holding it against his belly. "You'll learn."

"I'd really rather not. I've already spent years internalizing what mammals have told me about what foxes are and _aren't_ good for. Not counting the regular nonsense about predators in general too—" Nick closed his eyes half-way as he thought about various schemes he pulled throughout his early life, a paw drifting along his chest. It all seemed more and more like faded by comparison with his loving relationship with Judy, but he'd never forget how empty living up to the 'sly fox' stereotype had felt. "It's hard to unlearn all that, but you can. Look, even if you got took the scholarship way out of our neighborhood and managed to make something of yourself that way, I'm sure that all of that nasty talk—"

"Talk? For fuck's sake, government centers around _talking_ for a living more than actually _doing_ anything!" Scooter blasted through a power chord on his guitar. "The fact that my fellow geeky dipshits both here and back at the Transportation Department still try to make real projects go through— things that really _do_ change lives— is a minor miracle. Besides, Nick—"

"I'm the one about to start a new job, right? Let me ask a few questions, please, and I still have a lot of things that I don't get—"

"Wait a minute," Scooter interjected, thrusting his body down and opening up a drawer. He held up a small, red object that Nick couldn't quite see up in the air like a magical talisman. "This will help."

"A bowtie?"

"A genuine economist's red bowtie!" Scooter shoved his paws onto his cousin's neck and snapped it on. "Spend a while with this on— coupled with several sessions with that Goddamn reindeer and one with the Goddamn press— and you'll feel like a dead, shallow husk of a former living mammal in no time!"

"It's been a while," Nick commented, "but I'm surprised at how much life has changed a lot about you..."

"Living is changing," Scooter replied, "and I guess that I've been learning to understand that."

"Politics isn't really 'life'..."

"Hey, who's to say that I didn't change _for the better_?" Scooter's deranged facial expression caused Nick's eyes to grow wider and wider.

"I'm genuinely scared now," Nick whispered— closing his eyes and wishing that he'd stayed with Judy's irritating yet well-meaning parents instead.

"So am I. _Tá dreach brónach ar gach rud ann._ "

Before Nick could respond, he felt his cousin abruptly lean down and give him a close hug. As the other fox's arms clutched tightly around his, Nick felt something that he hadn't in quite a while. Getting touches and tastes of memories from years and years back, he pressed his body against the other fox's as close as he could.

"Family stands by family," Nick said. He surprised even himself at the confidence of his words. At the same time, he truly meant them.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

"Oh, you've got one!" Bike exclaimed, letting out a quick giggle.

"Yes, it's right here," Nick remarked, rubbing up his plain grey shirt with both paws. He chuckled as Bike leaned her head down and focused intently on the fox's bowtie. "Okay, go right ahead. Keep looking at my chest. It's totally not weird for you to gaze at it like hungry timberwolves at a seafood platter."

"Oh, sorry," the hare muttered, stepping back and brushing up against a fake fern.

"Hey, just kidding around," Nick remarked, "but I'm being serious about this: I'm game for whatever the department throws my way." Bike's smile back at him made his own grin grow even wider. "When in Rome, you dress as the Romans do and whatnot. Whatever the Secretary told you about me being all flexible and sly, spinning yarns about my hustling, he didn't say the _half of it_."

"Still, I'm just wondering, with you thrown into things so suddenly," Bike said, idly slipping a paw upon the plant as she looked on at Nick, "is there anything that you'd like me to get? And, hey, did you sleep okay? Have any problems getting around? Or picking up identifications and everything earlier?"

"I'm on top of everything. Compared to four a.m. stake-outs in hole-in-the-wall diners and everything that I've dealt with as a cop, this is a piece of cake... I just haven't been given something to really _do_ yet." Nick plopped himself back down upon his gigantic, cream-colored chair. Glancing about his small yet fancy digs, the office featuring every convenience that he could want, Nick wondered how just many odd habits the Department of Economic Affairs infected its employees with, beyond the bowties.

It was his first day, and he'd come in that morning filled with the brim with enthusiasm. Yet mammal after mammal avoided him. Paws kept sticking out of office doors waving him to keep walking as he ventured by, dirty looks getting constantly shot his way. He really didn't know what to think.

"Scooter will be here any second now, probably," Bike said, reaching over for the tablet on Nick's desk. They both glanced out of the open door for a moment.

"Wait, so we're using the s-word when we talk about my cousin, seriously?" Nick raised an eyebrow. "The name's not just a silly press thing, but even his friends do it? He's fine with it?"

"Trust me," Bike replied, not even looking at the fox as he tapped away, "nobody can really tell what will set the Secretary off versus what he'll just roll with. Stupid nickname? _A-ok_! Touch the guitar? _Pure rage_!" She made a deep, bitter laugh. "Last Tuesday, he spent something like a full five minutes losing it at a busted vending machine. But tell him that his doctor called with 'dangerous news'? He'll blow his nose with the 'Daily Mail' and shrug. He's as bi-polar as a magnet."

"Well," Nick began, shrugging, "that's—"

"Apples and oranges, Ms. Haight!"

The fox and the hare spun around. Scooter stepped out from behind a mass of fake plants outside the door, clutching a three-ring binder tightly against his chest. His messed-up fur and tired eyes looked every bit as stressed out as the day before.

"Hey, Mr. Secretary, I—"

"Again," Scooter went on, stepping into the office before leaning himself against the blank wall, "it's not a fair comparison. Our vending machines in the front lobby represent what a _lot_ of regular, working-class mammals first see when they come in to get government assistance. Having some ugly-looking machine rob them of one-forth an hour's wage is an extremely bad way to start things off. It _matters_."

"Fair enough," Nick remarked. He felt surprised at the hare's calm look, with Bike simply going back to even more loud taps on the tablet.

"Now, in contrast," Scooter continued, gesturing widely in the air like a symphony conductor, "having an M.D. tell me that I'm either pre-diabetic or already there is, well, _Goddamn obvious_! No shit, I'm put on eight daily pills from three separate diagnoses already!" He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle. "I'm sure that all of these little yellow dots will shrink my balls into chestnuts within a decade or two, for fuck's sake, so why should I listen to someone's hissy-fit about too much sugar?" Scooter popped out two pills and gulped them down.

"Too much, maybe, or too little can be a problem. It depends," Nick commented, tucking his chair a bit forward, "just saying." He made an awkward shrug.

"The point is," Scooter responded, clutching a coffee. Nick thought about how his cousin seemed to produce cup after cup as if by magic as Scooter walked. "I'm not going up to ten a day. _Maybe_ if there's a zombie apocalypse and the City Council staff get prescribed the cure. _Maybe_ then."

"Are you done, sir?" Bike asked, abruptly looking up from her device. Nick thought that she had on the oddest expression— her pretty features looking somehow both irritated and soothing at the same time.

"Yes, I damn well am!" Scooter declared. He stepped over to the side, brushed a keyboard over along the desk, and took a seat on the wide wood alongside the other fox. "And, wait a moment, Ms. Harriet?"

"Yes?"

"If we actually did start an affair," Scooter began, idly swinging his legs, "would you want me to take you to out to dinner at 'The Night Bite' off downtown or at 'Valjean's' over by the Sahara?"

"What kind of a miserable little slut do you take me for?" Bike asked, switching off her tablet and posing her paws upon the other side of the desk.

Nick locked eyes with his cousin. Scooter, for his part, merely stuck his legs out in front of him and shrugged. The hare held her head up high and went on.

"Valjean's, clearly, and you'd better spring for the absolute best Goddamn spaghetti in the place," she remarked, stepping away from the foxes and going for the door, "plus wine. Lots of wine. If the bill for drinks alone goes over a hundred bucks, well—"

"I get a buckteeth blowjob in the backseat of your shitty minivan?" Scooter piped up.

"I'm not committing to that," Bike said with a wave.

Nick tried his best to remain silent, holding back all kinds of smug remarks, as he watched his cousin. Sparks of life appeared on Scooter's face, although the fox still looked as haggard as ever. The hare made one step out of the door.

"Hey, Ms. Harriet, one last thing," Scooter called over, "if we got to the desk stage: which one could I do you on top of. Yours or mine?"

"Oh, for shit's sake, yours, _obviously_ ," Bike replied, reaching over to shut the door behind her, "it's not just that it's bigger. It's that there's all of those Goddamn newspapers all over it. Less mess that way."

"Sure," Scooter muttered. An awkward half a minute passed as the hare left the office and the two foxes silently looked at each other. Scooter kept on idly wiggling his legs underneath the desk while Nick tried to get comfortable in his huge chair.

"So, I guess that your relationship with your immediate staff is... _interesting_ ," Nick finally remarked.

"It does things to you." Scooter narrowed his eyes as he clutched yet another coffee. "Working with mammals that basically can never be fired does, I mean. Day after day."

"Are those," began Nick, glancing at the pill bottle poking out from one of Scooter's pockets, "some of those daily prescriptions that you—"

"Oh, just some high-dose aspirin with a little additives," Scooter interjected. He tossed the bottle over. "You learn to take that like candy over in Transportation. Basically the same in Economic Affairs. Not a big deal."

"Trust me," Nick said, shoving it into the side of his slacks, "I've known many desperate mammals on many desperate drugs, and you really can't treat these blue babies at that level. They're more like a..." Nick searched his mind trying to find a non-hustler way of putting things. "A sort of 'take as often weekly as you masturbate weekly' thing."

"Right." Scooter popped himself off of Nick's desk and leaned up against one of the fake plants.

"Speaking of such things," Nick went on, "I guess I understand now why 'Bike' is called that."

"Actually," Scooter replied, "it's because of her dogged determination in advocating for cycling lanes as well as for more pedestrian access in general. Even as a mid-level staffer, the 'Canidae-Thompson Public Affairs Act' wouldn't have gotten through if it wasn't for her pushing, almost like an obsession. She won an award from the Transportation Secretary and everything."

"Huh..."

" _Triúr páiste..._ there's three little ones between her and her husband." Scooter closed his eyes, rubbing a paw on his nose. " _However,_ it's still true that she _has_ gotten fucked like Bellwether put in public stocks on Pack Street. Either that or being in the right place at the right time is how females get the attention of the City Council, you know what I mean? Nickname wise, all that's... it's more of an 'icing on a cake' type thing."

" _Huh_ ," Nick repeated, idly tapping upon the various file folders on his desk. He had little clue what they all meant, and thumbing through some of them— scanning through commentary about 'Deputy Undersecretaries' filing non-compliance reports against 'Undersecretary Deputies' and the like— had only made him more confused.

"Anyways," remarked Scooter, pulling out a set of scribble-covered index cards from his pocket, "I'm finally able to make things solid in terms of your daily itinerary."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that. We can finally start getting logical around here," Nick held out a paw.

"We've got until Monday when the project gets announced, publicly, and the 'Phase One' of the roll-out takes two days. There's several things to manage in terms of the 'Preliminary Phase'."

"You can lay it all on me. I'm a fast learner."

"Oh, yes, and you've already been told that the Economics Department is officially announcing your appointment in just a few hours. Those sorts of midday mini-press-conferences shouldn't be anywhere near as hard as the debacle from yesterday. We'll answer just three questions. You'll give a brief statement with notes written on these cards, and it's all pretty straight-forward."

"Affirmative." Nick gripped the little notes and laid them out on the desk before him.

"You can just say 'great', 'right', 'yes', or the like," Scooter remarked, making a little sigh, "there's no reason to use 'Star Trunk' speak in this office."

"Even if I've got the geeky bowtie on?" Nick grinned from cheek to cheek as he pulled his shirt up. Scooter merely rolled his eyes back. Both foxes didn't seem to notice the office's door opening up.

"Oh, speaking of things around someone's neck," interjected the antelope clerk, poking a head in, "looks like the good 'Mr. White Collar' will be here in less than five minutes."

"Wait, how did you hear," Nick began to ask. He stopped mid-sentence, realizing that his own office had to have the same problems with mammals being able to spy inside. He merely closed hies mouth and nodded.

"I apologize for springing it on you," Scooter said as Nick got up out of his chair, "but this reverend is an important—"

"Hey, I know how to soft-talk and sweet-talk mammals in power, trust me," Nick remarked with a laugh, "even if I'm not in charge of anything myself, don't worry, I know how important meeting with constituents is. He's the reverend of what?"

"He's a Zootopia City Council member, not some random complainer," Scooter sternly replied, the foxes stepping closer. The politician paused to glance at his watch, frowning, and locked eyes with his council. "It's _vital_ that our Department keeps him playing ball with the Mayor's administration. The Church of Truth in general has a lot of connections, and he's got, fair or unfair, the ear of a lot of mammals. He could bring 'Urban Hymns' to a screeching halt before it even starts if he gets too excited."

"Well, that won't happen. After all, this new office that you got me is top-of-the-line. We'll sit down. We'll have some drinks that aren't some of these medicine-like strong coffees. All smiles, right?"

"Yeah, it's a kind of disarming environment, all out of context and friendly like," Scooter said, "and we're probably going to get a much softer, calmer sort of response out of him than if he'd succeeded in getting hold of the Mayor's idiotic tough guys." He paused for a moment, shifting his head back. "Look, despite your snooping around yesterday, you need to know that politics isn't just a non-stop shout-fest."

"I know. Hey, it's nothing more than the flip-side of mammals thinking that being a cop is all drug busts done at midnight with guns blazing— nobody's picturing any broken staplers, half-empty water-coolers, and stacks upon stacks of paperwork."

"We've got enough votes for the next several months in terms of our main agenda, but things are certainly fragile enough that any little wobbling by one or two City Council members will ripple across. Especially when it comes to the guys from the damned Traditionalist Party..."

"The Traditionalist Party," Nick remarked, scratching his chin, "I saw that on the news. The grand Miss Piggy in charge has gotten a bunch of renegades to break off from their leadership and endorse the new government. Still, aren't they really different mammals in every way that you can think of: from what food they eat to where they call home to even their species all being just so unlike the guys in downtown Zootopia?"

"No shit," Scooter flatly replied. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. "Even the ones that are reasonable enough... there's such a big gap in talking to them that I might as well be playing chess with a blind otter underwater."

"Nice visual."

"I try."

"He'll be here any minute now, then?"

"Yes, long story short, we should see Reverend Blair in something like two minutes and forty-five seconds or so."

"You and your geeky obsession with little details. Didn't even look at your phone. And... hey, wait a minute, 'Reverend Blair'? Where have I heard that name before?" Nick asked, flipping around and clicking his desktop computer.

"His stupid nickname is 'B-liar'—"

Nick slid his head back and chuckled. "Him! The hapless wolf that got into such a fuss when he tried to speak out against the 'It's Not Gay If It's Prey' t-shirts— talk radio made a laughingstock out of him for weeks, didn't they? And his war of words with internet trolls? Still, wow, will _everyone_ that I actually work end up having some silly title? Ones that I have to constantly keep myself from saying out loud?"

"In fairness," Scooter replied, "a lot of us have just rolled with ours."

"You should know that you guys are making the mob look less childish by comparison. At least someone like 'Spanky' Leaps from the Puma Gang actually had a thing about—"

"Hello?" The foxes spun around and watched as a tall, skinny mammal awkwardly fumbled at the door. "Oh, confound it, there's one of those dreadful electronic doodads above the knob— bad enough to see such things in a once nice hotel, keeping you from actually entering your room, but in a public office it's simply ghastly!"

"Just a moment," Scooter called out, fumbling with the other side of the door as various noises popped out from the other side, "please don't touch it while I'm touching it!"

"Oh, dear," remarked the muffled voice.

"Just let me—"

"Here we go!" Reverend Blair triumphantly thrust open the door, whacking it against Scooter's side. The fox half-collapsed upon a set of fake plants, plastic leaves smacking upon his face and paws. "I simply—" The elderly wolf stopped and looked over beside him. Various little bits and pieces of his dark grey fur looking almost white in the office's bright florescents, horror struck the reverend's face. "Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry!"

"It's certainly fine," Scooter replied, picking himself up and leaning against the side of the wall. Nick, for his part, tried to keep from giggling. His flat expression remained the same even as he held a paw above his face and stood up out of his chair.

"Oh, well, I suppose that—"

"Yes, we can go ahead and start with this little meeting," Nick interjected, holding out a paw for the black-cloaked reverend, "how are you?"

"I'll manage, as I've done for some fifty odd years now," the wolf replied. He gripped Nick's arm with both paws, shaking vigorously. The fox strained to keep from being wiggled about. "It's great to see you as well as to spend time with the Secretary. How are you? And, well, pardon my frankness at asking so bluntly, but _who_ are you?"

" _We're_ doing fine," Scooter said, stepping over behind Blair.

"He's not a pet cricket or the like, dear Secretary," the reverend said, allowing himself a quick smile. He finally released his grip on the somewhat amused looking fox. "He can speak for himself."

"He's perfectly correct." Nick gestured over to a chair, and Blair immediately sat down— the wolf folding his paws in a careful way as he leaned against the table. "I'm glad to meet you. The name is: Nicholas 'Nick' Wilde. My official title is somewhat of a mouthful, but the gist of things is that I'm a sort of personal assistant to the leadership here."

"Oh, _yes_ ," Blair remarked, his eyes growing a little wider, "you're that charismatic one that worked with the ZPD to solve that dreadful case with the 'Nighthowlers'. I'm so glad that those unfortunate events worked out as well as they did." He glanced over at a portrait of ex-Mayor Lionheart on the wall, sighing, and continued on. "Nevertheless, we in the Council have had to work through cleaning up quite the mess that's been left. So many pointless divisions— an especially tragic occurrence between those that consider themselves, rightly I may add, the same children of the same God—"

"I couldn't agree more," Nick replied. He exchanged glances with the frustrated-looking Secretary. Nick gave a confident nod and brushed an arm along the edge of his desk— he'd hustled far tougher marks in his life, selling much nastier than the likes of afterschool education. After all, Nick thought, he had every reason to genuinely support this project no matter what objection ended up getting put in his way.

"I'm worried about, well," the Reverend said, leaning forward even more, "two things in particular. First of all, even if I've made no such commitment myself, I'm rather concerned about the budgetary promises made by so many in the Mayor's government. Not just what she's said herself comes to mind... assertions made by the Secretary and various other leaders got duly reported, didn't they?"

Not wanting to be rude, the wolf turned and looked over blankly at Scooter. The other fox came to a seat several feet away from the desk. His arrogant expression, head held up high, showed that he wanted to start a long, droning lecture, but Scooter remained completely silent. Unsure, the Reverend met eyes with Nick once again, awkwardly coughing.

"Well, of course," Nick began, finding himself flying blind, "keeping one's word is important—"

"Exactly!" Blair tapped a paw against the desk. He immediately drew it back, apparently having underestimated just how hard the wood actually was. "I, well, what I'm trying to say is this: I know that _I've_ said nothing about that trendy 'no new programs for the next six months' pledge. However, Secretary Wilde _has_ , alongside many other mammals, and this—"

"It's not a new _program_!" Scooter interjected, shuffling about a bit in his seat.

"Now, wait a moment—" Blair shifted himself so that he awkwardly glanced at one fox with one eye and the other fox with the other eye. "It's surely—"

"It's a new _project_!" Scooter pointed defiantly at the wolf. "There's a significant difference!"

"You're spending money, are you not? You're doing something new that you've not done before, are you not? You're, well," the reverend said, making a small sigh, "oh, honestly, I'm not sure what's the use in objecting! Is there a practical difference at all between 'program' and 'project'?"

"Of course, there is!" Scooter called out.

"There's," Nick began, finding himself immediately stop and search his mind, "oh, well, they're different words for a reason—"

"Oh, so the _words_ are where we have to hang our hats, hm?" Blair remarked, arching an eyebrow. "I don't mean to come across as patronizing. However, I must say that the Savior had a lot to say about those that parse legalistic vagaries, if I recall correctly."

Scooter popped out of his chair, body poised as if to leap out at the reverend. "It doesn't mean—" 

"Hey, wait!" Nick exclaimed, holding up a paw in his cousin's direction. The other fox froze in place. Nick put on a look of utter confidence, eyes half closing, and Blair looked on him intently. "Reverend Blair, of course! Your integrity and respect for the process is nothing if not admirable, but it's just that the Urban Hymns effort is, well, organized under different channels than usual, you know?"

"I know?" Blair repeated.

"Well, it stands to reason, doesn't it?" Nick leaned himself against the desk, paws held together for a moment. "Education is one of the core functions of government. Everybody agrees with that. Crime prevention is another one. I would know, more than your average mammal, after all. The Urban Hymns project is simply a continuation of those deep principles."

"Oh, well, that seems self-evident."

"You can believe your colleagues here, especially my cousin, when they say that they value what they say as seriously as you do. At least, being thrust into a complex situation without that much in the way of age and experience, they _try_ — and should doing so not be lauded?"

"I suppose it's a rather tricky affair, though I," Blair began. Yet he leaned back suddenly, turning his head to glance again at the portrait of Lionheart. "Oh, confound it, I shouldn't be such a nosy-parker, acting so judgmental." He held a paw against his cheek, sighing once again. "The likes of economic management remain far from my areas of expertise. Like I said before, I have two main worries. That was the lesser one."

"And, good reverend, what is the major one?" Nick asked. He put on a caring-looking smile. "There's no need to be shy. You can be honest here."

" _Confound it_ ," Blair remarked. He closed his eyes and placed his paw against his other cheek. Nick valiantly tried to keep from laughing— Blair's face seemed as if he felt like he had used R-rated language in front of a toddler.

"So—"

"Yes, I know, you deserve my frankness. So be it. What I'm mainly concerned about is another repeat of the 'T-Shirt Incident'—" The reverend made air quotes. "Being, even worse, co-mingled with what happened during the 'Song of the Summer Incident'."

"Incidents," Nick repeated, searching through his memory. He followed cable news as much as the next mammal, most likely more so as a ZPD officer, yet neither terms rang a bell.

"Oh, the emotional scars of such dreadfulness linger even to this day," Blair went on, shaking his head as his body drooped.

"We certainly understand," Scooter chimed in, walking over to behind his cousin. Nick simply looked out blankly above the reverend's head. "The Parks & Recreation Department had such a wonderful idea, polling its patrons online in order to get a semi-official main theme to their summer events, and ex-Mayor Bellwether's mammals felt so dismayed when—"

"Those dreadful ogres on keyboards!" Blair interjected. He shuffled about in his seat as he made an expression of defiance. "Yes, I suppose, there's another fantastical beast that the pathetic rapscallions tend to get compared to— still, at any rate, they utterly _ruined_ what could have been a _charming_ ceremony for Zootopian families!"

Scooter gave an understanding nod. He silently reached for a small notepad on the edge of Nick's desk and jotted a few quick lines down. Nick held one of the reverend's paws, giving a sympathetic look, and reached for the little paper. It read: 'Internet trolls from /pol/ar - Rigged voting - Winner was "Anal Impregnation" by Sasper the Homosexual Ghost.'

"Oh, my, yes," Nick remarked. The reverend gazed into the younger mammal's eyes, the wolf trying to calm down, and they both sat up straighter in their chairs. "We'll be sure not to repeat those unfortunate events again."

"But _how_?" Blair held up his arms and took in a deep breath. "As I told your lovely hare staffer, I've no _ideological_ objection to your office's project. On the contrary, I've every reason to support the younger members of my flock having more to do during lonely afternoons— especially those afflicted by poverty. Party orthodoxy is meaningless to me in contrast to _moral_ orthodoxy. Yet I'm so _afraid_ , dear Nicholas, that opening up government coffers to fund independent song-writing is a disaster waiting to happen. How many of the families that I represent will get shocked and offended by what the young mammals offer up?"

"Is there a possibility of some problems? Yes," Nick said. He exchanged glances with his cousin, who seemed to wait with baited breath to see Nick work his magic. "However, as you know, I'm taking this position while on leave from the ZPD. The police know a lot of ways to make programs work out without silly trolls messing up everything."

"Oh, please do go on."

"As I talked about with my cousin earlier, the biggest thing with these troublemakers is that they're a problem only when it's _easy_ for them. They recoil from things that make them get out in the sunlight like a sheep accidentally walking into a BugBurga. If all they need to do is make a few clicks, then _naturally_ their plans will be different than if they need to do real work."

"I'm afraid that I'm not following."

"Well, it's," Nick began— pausing for a moment, thinking quickly, "actually pretty simple. Mammals can _express_ their opinions on which Urban Hymns related song get our approval, but the ultimate process is done by _old-fashioned voting_." Nick leaned in close, getting mere inches away from the wolf's face. "Just like when picking a Mayor? Yes, a troll would have to actually walk out of his basement, take a bus, and march on over into a physical building in order to write their preference."

"Are you sure, though, that—"

"Speaking not just as one mammal to another but as a police officer to a worried citizen: _trust me_!" Nick smiled from cheek to cheek. "We already have the resources to do physical voting. It's only a matter of administration. And I'm _positive_ that we'll see some witty, intelligent song-writing emerge after all this."

"Oh, you're right," Blair replied, smiling back. He picked himself up and brushed his cloak. "I shouldn't be such an old fussbudget." He gave nods over to both foxes before grasping Nick's pawshake once again. "Thank you, though, for soothing my nerves. You all will remain on top of things, indeed, and I look forward to seeing you in front of the cameras in shortly. It's been wonderful to meet you, Nicholas."

"Likewise, Reverend Blair!" Nick watched intently as the wolf shook paws with Scooter, the other fox still seeming pretty tense. The reverend then popped out the door, leaving it a tad open, and shuffled down the office corridor.

"Damn, that did do fairly well," Scooter remarked. Letting out a deep sigh, he brush his arms through the fake plants. "Good job in pulling that physical votes thing out of your ass."

"Hey, I wouldn't still be _alive_ if I couldn't think on my toes," Nick responded, "but is the Economics Office really able to hold—"

"Oh, don't worry, if worst comes to worst I could pay for it out of my own salary. I'm almost positive that it'll be no problem."

"Alright! As well, there's three more things." Nick plopped himself down on his comfy chair and swiveled it idly around in place. The spinning motion still made him feel like a kit in a playground swing again. "First, the key to persuasion is always _confidence_. If you believe in what you're saying, then whomever you're trying to work will always be at least a little sympathetic."

"I know that we're just talking about... talking. But, well, easier said than done."

"Second, the morons at /pol/ar will try to screw up _anything_ that your government does, no matter what. It's what they do. Why care? Just try to knock them off best you can, like dust off of your shoulders, and move on." Nick reached for a dresser drawer and pulled it out, taking out a recording pen. "Third, can I be honest? 'Sasper the Homosexual Ghost' is a _fantastic_ band name."

"Sill, I don't get it," Scooter replied, leaning up against the wall.

"Get what?"

"The 'anal impregnation' thing!" His eyes grew wide as Nick chuckled back. "No, come on, listen to me! How the _hell_ would it work? Getting someone pregnant by going through the—"

"If the creamy stuff is shot up the tail-hole," Bike interjected, hopping into the room, "then it stands to reason that the baby, or whatever horrible thing it is, starts growing back in there as well—"

"That doesn't solve anything!" Scooter angrily stamped a paw against the floor. "What would the, uh, the 'butt baby'—" He made air quotes as he looked back at Nick. "Even eat? How would it expand? Where would the space be?"

"You're pretty smart— don't you know that the small and large intestines have a ton of room in them? Just saying," Bike replied, slapping a group of papers in front of the giggling Nick.

" _Not enough_!" Scooter exclaimed. He rubbed his paws against his cheeks. "And, come the fuck on, so _what_ if the weird kid sucked up a bunch of nutrients and the like left over from the mommy or daddy's digestion? _Still_ , what the hell would it do month to month? Just crawl around up and down? How would that—"

"Oh, Scooter, please," Nick interjected, holding his face against the wood and trying his best not to erupt with a torrent of belly laughs, "okay, look: if you want to evaluate a stupid little punk song _scientifically_ , you'll probably have a bad time." He slapped a knee. "Besides! They're a _ghost_! Or, well, _ghosts_ plural— their kinky pregnancy won't begin to make sense anyway, wouldn't it? Since _when_ have ghosts had mass, displayed energy, and so on in ways that made sense?"

"Okay, now _that's_ logical, at least." Scooter shoved himself back into a chair, burying his face in his chest for a moment. "But it's still just too _out there_."

"Don't kink-shame, Mr. Secretary. I happen to find the whole thing rather hot— giving the horny guys that screw girl after girl without a second thought about protection, leaving it all up to the poor things, a taste of their own bareback medicine," Bike remarked.

"Fine, _fine_... forget that I brought it up."

"These are all for you to sign." Bike slid the papers a few inches upon Nick's desk. "You can bother reading them, if you want, but there's nothing special there. It should take you no time at all— just drop them off at my cubicle's tray when you're done, Nick."

"Thanks!" Nick glanced back at his cousin. "In fairness, I've got to point out: it wasn't _you_ that brought it up, it was the so-called _'B-liar'_. Don't sweat it." He began jotting down his signatures.

"I'll see you both at the mini-press-conference. Less than an hour to go," Bike remarked.

"Hey, 'cuz, wait a moment."

Nick looked up with a blank expression on his face. Meanwhile, Bike had hopped away to do some more office-related errands. Scooter, however, had gone back to his creepy grinning from the night before.

"Guess what Reverend Blair's first name is. Nobody even brought it up this entire morning. Wonder why?"

"Just tell me."

"Poodle."

" _Are you kidding me?_ "

"Nope! Reverend Poodle Blair, born on Pack Street in the middle of the city, now has made it to the top of his own particular 'wolf pack'!"

"Hey, it's like they keep telling the tourists," Nick said, chuckling as he neatly folded the papers in front of him, "in Zootopia, anyone can be anything."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> This is inspired by my love for a variety of programs: particularly 'House of Cards', The Thick of It', 'The West Wing', and 'Yes, Minister'. The title shows just how indebted I am to the wonderful program with Peter Capaldi. I'm not entirely sure how this story will end, but I love being able to bleed my interests in a bunch of different things over to my love for the Zootopia universe. Please post a comment if you have any advice, concerns, ideas, worries, or anything of the sort. Thanks once again.


End file.
